


V Day

by nympheline



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-14
Updated: 2012-02-14
Packaged: 2017-10-31 04:54:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/340130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nympheline/pseuds/nympheline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock and Mycroft celebrate St. Valentine's Day. Possible AU, depending on what Gatiss and Moffat decide to do with the series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	V Day

**Author's Note:**

> In Nicholas Meyer's *The Seven-Per-Cent Solution* and Trevor Hall's *Sherlock Holmes-Ten Literary Studies*, the authors reveal that Pater Holmes murdered his wife after discovering that she was having an affair. It being 14 February and all, I thought it would be fun to give Sherlock and Mycroft a reason for hating St. Valentine's Day other than the obvious. In my mind, it is the day Violet Mycroft Holmes was born, the day her infidelity was discovered, and the day she died. Such a horrid family history also explains why Mycroft and Sherlock never mention their father.

     “Patient brought these in for me. Chocolates. Want so—Oh. Hello, Mycroft.”

     Two left eyebrows rise, two heads turn in the sort of resentful tandem that takes years to perfect. The Holmes boys stare pointedly at John Watson, still smelling faintly of glutaraldehyde and grape-scented latex, and just as pointedly back at each other.

     John tries to buy time to think by falling back on commonplace pleasantries. “Well. Happy Valentine’s Day.”

     The emotional temperature of the room, already frigid, falls another ten degrees.

     Mycroft makes the first move. “Really, John, St. Valentine’s Day is nothing more than the Catholic Church once again attempting to appropriate pagan festivals for conversion purposes. One might as well say, ‘Happy Spring Cleaning Day.’”

     Sherlock stirs. “Or ‘Happy Let’s-Dress-In-Bloody-Goatskins-And-Beat-Our-Wives Day.’”

     “…Right. Well. I’m going… somewhere that’s not here. Hope you like the chocolates.” John stomps to his bedroom, each step more baffled and sullen than the one before.

     More quietly than you could imagine a self-assured man could speak, Mycroft whispers, “Someday you’re going to have to tell him what happened.”

     Sherlock stares out the window, at the complex dance of memories and numbness that always comprises this day. “Not today.”

     Mycroft raises his glass. “To Mummy. May she rest in peace.”

     Sherlock taps the edge of his glass to his brother’s. “To Mummy. Happy Birthday.”


End file.
